Thomas Robert Barnes

Tree House

You wanted to rise,
urge yourself to begin.

One, two branches,
crosslegged,

you sit in the tree house
above your head.

This is the idea;
it has no clothes,

it can't see itself in the mirror,
a finger to its chin, scratching.

We wanted, we rose
to meet each others' eyes,

a light so heavy with hope,
it climbed, it fell, it rose again.